


Timor Mortis

by margdean56



Series: Tower Mountain/New Hope stories [1]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: Gen, Old Settlement, Peysol, Tower/New Hope, nature of elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Peysol learns about the nature of elfin life and death from one of the last surviving Firstcomers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timor Mortis

**Author's Note:**

> This story, the first of the Tower Mountain/New Hope series going by internal chronology, takes place in the Old Settlement, the precursor to the elfin settlements of Tower Mountain and the Hidden Valley, and predates them by several hundred years. (Note that the Tower Mountain dating system is ... peculiar. For internal plot reasons, the founding of the Tower is dated at Year -2000.)
> 
> Originally published in _Tales of the Tower #31_

TWR -2595: The Old Settlement

In his small bedroom off the common room of Serind’s House, Peysol had been awake for some time. He had listened to the conversation of his elders in the next room almost without thinking about it as he snuggled under his thick coverlet, enjoying the absence of fever and the sensation of being able to breathe without struggle. But now the elf child clutched his pillow, shivering uncontrollably, tears streaking his face.

_I don’t want to die!_

Since his premature birth eight and four turns of the seasons ago, Peysol had been a sickly child. Illnesses that other elves shrugged off with little thought often left him bedridden for days. None of the Settlement’s healers seemed able to alter a condition that had been part of him all his short life.

Over the course of time Peysol had come to know that elves could die of illness, just as the Settlement’s goats and sheep could. He had sensed the anxiety and fear in his elders whenever he fell sick. The knowledge that he himself could die had been with him, really, for a long time, lurking in the shadows of his mind. But as long as no one mentioned the possibility, he had been able to keep his apprehensions at bay. And of course no one ever spoke of death to him, only of what needed to be done to make him well again. _Drink this. Breathe that. Relax, concentrate on my voice. Sleep._ Words of encouragement, words of love … but what else lay behind them, in the hearts of those he loved? Now he had heard it from their own lips.

What had first caught the boy’s attention was a sudden break in the murmur of adult voices in the common room. A door slammed, boot soles clattered and scraped on the stone floor, curtain rings rattled, and a resonant baritone announced, “Ahoy the house! The wild aurochs of the waves is safe home again!” Peysol smiled to himself, thinking that his father was incapable of entering a room quietly.

“Merek, Taywar, you’re drenched! Come hang those cloaks by the fire.” That would be Vayree, rising from her treadle loom to greet the newcomers.

“Clayven, my dear, dish up some hot stew for these two recreants.” Maryah, Vayree’s aunt. Then the cheery voice of Clayven, her lifemate.

“Tell us, oh master of the high seas, was the catch worth it?”

“You know perfectly well Merek cares nothing for the catch.” That was Clayven’s elder sister, the healer Tascha, in the visitor’s chair by the hearth. “Was the adventure worth a tale, that’s the real question!”

Then Peysol heard his mother’s voice, full of concern. “My dear, you’re chilled to the bone!”

“And what else would be bringing me to your side, my sunlight?” Merek replied. “Not but what it’s a nasty cold night. There’ll be a proper storm before morning. Blame our lateness on a seaman’s care—we had to make sure _Foamcutter_ could weather it. Ah, smooth the frown from that pearly brow! ’Twould take more than a chill to lay low the conqueror of the deep!” Peysol could see in his mind’s eye the flourishing gesture that would accompany this pronouncement. But Merek’s next words were spoken in a much more subdued tone. “How fares our son, beloved? Is he…”

“Much better,” Nennali answered. “His fever has broken, and Tascha says the crisis is past.”

“He’s sleeping now,” Tascha added. “You can go in and see him when he wakes.”

“Xylene will be glad to hear that,” came Taywar’s voice, muffled as if spoken around a mouthful of Clayven’s stew. “We stopped at Auiriath’s on the way, and she wanted to know when Peysol would be able to come out and play.”

“That won’t be for some days yet,” Tascha cautioned. “But she may come and see him tomorrow if she promises not to be too boisterous and tire him out.”

Nennali sighed. “Sometimes I envy Uli, I really do. That daughter of hers never seems to be ill.”

“No,” said Maryah tartly. “Uli only has to worry about what hare-brained scrape the child will tumble into next, and how long it will be before she breaks her neck falling out of a tree. Fortunate Uli.”

A reluctant laugh came from Nennali. “I suppose you are right, Maryah, as usual. But sometimes I can’t help wondering…” A weary sadness colored her words. “We fought so hard to save him, when he was born too early—you, Tascha, and Tyaar and Irralev and Wyn. Would it have been kinder to let him go then, before we had the chance to—to love him? To fear the same loss again and again…”

“No,” Tascha said positively. “Life is always precious. Besides, look at what happened to Silara. She still suffers the pain of her loss, and her babe was younger than Peysol.”

“Love is never wasted, Nennali,” said Vayree. “You must believe that. Peysol will be a tribute to your mothering as long as he lives, however long that may be … and after. You’re tired and overwrought from nursing him these past days, I know. That’s what brings on such thoughts.”

“For my part I’ll have no more of this glooming,” Merek said impatiently. “Our son is recovering yet again, not so, my pearl? Mark my words, he’ll prove hardier than you imagine.”

“Irralev thinks,” Tascha added, “that once Peysol reaches physical maturity his susceptibility to illness may pass. And Irralev is the most sensitive of us, without question.”

“The question is,” said Taywar in his blunt way, “whether the boy will live long enough to reach maturity. You can say what you like, Merek, but every winter it’s the same thing, one bout of desperate illness after another. One of these times even Tyaar may not be able to call him back. You’d better be prepared for it. There’s a hard winter coming.” As if to echo his words, the shutters of Peysol’s sickroom rattled in the wind. “This weather is just the first taste of it.”

It was as if Taywar’s speech opened an intangible shutter and let something cold into the room. The adults’ conversation faded as the knowledge struck deep into Peysol’s soul: They thought he was going to die.

_I don’t_ want _to die_ , the boy wailed in silent terror, though no sound or sending escaped him. _I’m alive now, I am, I am! I’m getting better, Tascha said so!_ Tomorrow Xylene would come to see him, he thought desperately, and maybe she’d bring Flickertuft and they could tease him with pieces of yarn. Maybe Cort would come with her and help them paint pictures, and Peysol would get the clouds right this time. And surely Clayven would be by to tell stories and sing songs. In a few days he’d be able to get up and work at his carding and spinning, and sit in his special chair by the fire in the evening and help his mother mend clothes, while Merek told one of his outrageous tales and made everyone laugh.

_But what about the next time? What if—what if—_ Peysol curled himself into a tight ball, but could not keep out the chill darkness that assailed his spirit, the howling of wind that echoed the gale outside, the unutterable loneliness that was the thought of death, of not-being.

After a time, sheer terror began to fade, his spirit too exhausted to maintain it. The slight body unclenched and lay relaxed, though tears still slipped from beneath Peysol’s closed eyelids. He thought of calling for his mother. She would be at his side in moments, he knew, comforting him in her embrace. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he rejected it. Comfort was not what he wanted—what he _needed_ , whether he wanted it or not.

_I need to_ know _what’s going to happen to me. I need to know the truth._ If he was going to have to face the prospect of his own death, head-on and undisguised, as Taywar had, he wanted to know what that meant. Even an ever-present fear would be better than a constant uncertainty. But truth was the last thing he would hear from his mother or the other adults—even Taywar—if they knew he was listening. _Of course you’re not going to die, Peysol,_ they would say in rallying tones, and he would be unable to believe them. _(Would it have been kinder to let him go?)_ Perhaps Tascha would add, _We won’t let you,_ and he would know that none of her efforts would suffice if death was determined to have him. _(Even Tyaar may not be able to call him back.)_ It had already taken so many of their people.

None of them would tell him the truth. But there was one person who would, Peysol realized suddenly. If there was anyone in the Settlement—in the world—who knew the secrets of life and death, it was Ataynah.

Ataynah was Vayree’s grandmother and one of the last surviving Firstcomers. She had come to live in the house of her daughter Serind centuries ago. Aloof, enigmatic, and withdrawn even from her fellow Firstcomers—not to mention their descendants—for some reason she took an interest in Peysol. From his earliest childhood he could remember her presence. Usually she remained in the background, watching him. Occasionally she spoke, her remarks oblique and cryptic. Peysol wasn’t sure he liked Ataynah or even trusted her. He certainly didn’t understand her. But something told him that anything she said would be no less than the truth. He would ask her tonight.

 

When Tascha and Nennali looked in on him a little later, Peysol was lying quietly, eyes open, looking at the ceiling. Nennali came to him at once.

“Awake, dear one? How do you feel?” She sat down on the edge of the bed and laid the backs of her fingers against his forehead. She must have seen some lingering mark of his tears, for her hand moved down to caress his cheek, and she asked worriedly, “Do you hurt somewhere?”

_Only my heart,_ he wanted to say. He wanted her to take him in her arms and tell him everything would be all right. But that wouldn’t be the truth. So he said, “No, Mother. I—I just had a bad dream. I’ll be—I was all right as soon as I woke up. I’ll go back to sleep in a little while, I promise.” He hated to lie to her—he wasn’t used to having secrets from his mother—but he didn’t want to make her any more anxious than she already was.

“Oh, Peysol. You should have called me.” Nennali gathered up her son in a warm embrace. He clung to her fiercely, willing himself not to cry again. _I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave you. Don’t let me go!_

“I’m all right, Mother, truly.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” Tenderly she smoothed his pale blond hair, the same shade as her own. She laid him down and tucked the coverlet snugly around him, then bent to kiss his cheek. “Good night, my dear one. You’ll listen for him, Tascha?”

“Of course,” the healer assured her. “I’ll be right outside. Go to bed, Nennali. You’ll both feel better in the morning.”

The two elf women withdrew. Peysol waited a little longer in order to give Tascha time to fall asleep on the daybed by the hearth, where one or another of the Settlement’s healers would sleep until he was more fully recovered. Fortunately healers always slept quickly, knowing the importance of rest and able to induce sleep if it did not come of its own accord.

The rain outside had become a storm, as Merek had predicted. Peysol heard the wind’s howl above the rattle of the shutters as he got out of bed and found a warm wool robe and slippers. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments after putting them on, for he still felt weak and lightheaded. He wondered whether he would be able to walk all the way to Ataynah’s room without fainting. But he was determined to ask his question before he had time to lose his nerve. At last he got to his feet and slipped through the curtained doorway. As he had hoped, Tascha was asleep, her long hair echoing the red glow of embers in the hearth. She did not even stir as he passed her and went out into the hall.

The corridors of the villa were considerably chillier than the firelit rooms. Peysol shivered as he walked despite his heavy robe. He reached out to a wall for support, but his hand flinched away from the cold stone. After a while his head began to swim. The journey seemed to take forever, and he felt as if he were walking in a dream.

At last he reached the end of the long corridor and the small room where Ataynah spent most of her days. Perhaps at one time she had sat with the other weavers in the common room of an evening, but not within Peysol’s memory. When he peered through the curtained doorway he saw her sitting in her straight-backed chair by the fire. Backlit, she was a sharp-edged shadow cast by no visible body. She was spinning, her motions precise and unvarying. The boy watched for a few moments, both fascinated and chilled. He wondered if she had “gone out” of her body as she was sometimes rumored to do, leaving the body to perform some repetitive task on its own. But then Ataynah turned her head toward him and her hands paused in their work. “Who comes?”

“It’s me, Ataynah. Peysol.” He sidled through the doorway and stood looking up at her. Even seated she was taller than he was, slim and straight in a simple, sleeveless robe of light wool, her sable brown hair braided back in a severe style that emphasized her chiseled features and winged brows.

Ataynah studied the slender blond elf child with her cool grey eyes. “It is late.” She did not say this in a remonstrating tone, but merely as if making an observation. “What brings you here, Lastborn?”

Ataynah had called him “Lastborn” for as long as Peysol could remember. He also remembered thinking, eight years ago when Xylene was born, that the nickname would be transferred to the younger child. He was wrong. When he challenged Ataynah about this, she explained—obliquely, she was always oblique—that Xylene, though younger in years, was by virtue of her generation closer to the Firstcomers than he. Peysol had been forced to accept the nickname as accurate but not quite kind, which was often true of Ataynah herself. No matter. He needed those qualities now.

“I had heard you were not well,” Ataynah continued.

“I … that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” The boy tried to stand straighter, though it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to stand at all.

Ataynah noticed this and motioned to a stool by the fire. “Sit.” Peysol obeyed her. “You wish to speak to me of your illness? Why? I am not a healer.”

“Because none of them will tell me the truth!” he blurted. “I’ve heard the grownups talking, and—” He stared at the fire as he said this. Then his intense blue eyes looked up into Ataynah’s grey ones. “Ataynah, am I going to die?” There, it was said, and his voice hadn’t even trembled, despite his shivering body and the way his insides were churning and his heart pounding like one of Geibryl’s big drums.

Ataynah subjected him to several long moments of scrutiny before replying. “If you speak of physical death, Lastborn, you must speak to a healer and not to me. Go to Irralev—he is not one to soothe with soft words. But that is not your question, I think.” She bent closer. “Can it be that no one has ever told you what manner of being you are? We _cannot_ die, Lastborn.”

Peysol abruptly straightened on his stool. His young voice was angry. “Can’t we? What about Serind? What about Raniyel? What about the First Lord Ketsal? How can you say we cannot die? Oh, I know we don’t age like other creatures, but what difference does that make when—”

“—when there are so many other ways to destroy our bodies, is that what you would say? Indeed. And we have sampled freely of them since we came to this time and place. What of it? Do you imagine that you are no more than a body, Lastborn?”

The boy sat silent for several moments, considering Ataynah’s words. Of course he imagined no such thing. Everyone knew that elves had spirits as well as bodies. The spirit was what you touched when you sent. And a few of the older elves, like Ataynah herself, could “go out” of their bodies altogether. Was that what happened when an elf died?

Ataynah’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Long before our exile here, we transcended our bodies. Did you not know? We could have cast them aside like outworn garments and existed forever as beings of pure spirit. We decided against this and retained our physical form, but though evolution may pause, it can never truly go back, even on a world as primitive and hostile to magic as this one is. Our descendants retain our essential nature: beings of spirit clothed in bodies but not dependent upon them for individual existence. Destroy the body and the immortal spirit remains. This is a truth that cannot be changed. For us, the body is only a garment. The spirit is the true self.”

“But … if the spirit remains … why can’t we still send to—to the elves who’ve died, like Serind?”

Ataynah had taken up her spindle again. She smiled thinly, sardonically. “Sending has limitations of range, Lastborn, as I am sure you know, especially from within a body. I did not say that the released spirit remains _here_.”

The storm outside was growing louder. Peysol pulled his robe more tightly around him. “Where do they go, then?”

Ataynah still had her eyes fixed on him, but now they looked as if they were gazing straight through him and out the other side. Her spindle rose and fell, rose and fell. “Where might they not go, unfettered as they are by matter and freed of the distractions of physical life? Limitations still exist for beings such as we, immortal but individual, retaining a bounded selfhood even when bodiless. But they are fewer and of a far different nature. Where might they not go, borne on the winds of that other world of the spirit?” The tone of her voice communicated an intense longing, an emotion Peysol would never have expected of her.

The gale howled outside, driving rain against the shuttered window of Ataynah’s room. By the warm fireside and in his wool robe, the boy shivered. “They … they can’t help it? I mean—Serind loved Tor. They were lifemates, my mother said. And their children. She wouldn’t have left them if—”

Ataynah made an impatient gesture with one long, slender hand. “Such questions are meaningless. Of course we are shaped by our relations with other spirits. What else can truly affect a spirit but another spirit? But once the physical is discarded, what difference should physical proximity make to these relations? I do not doubt that my daughter and her lifemate have found each other. In their case, indeed, the bond is true.”

Peysol stared into the fire, struggling with the concepts Ataynah had propounded, trying to construct some kind of picture of the immaterial existence that might lie beyond death. What would it be like to be without a body? Like fire, all light and motion? Like wind, blowing willy-nilly through the world? How would one see, hear, touch, communicate? How could one spirit find another? He looked up at Ataynah again. “But—” he began.

**Words! Words are useless!** Her sending crackled with impatience. Her grey eyes captured his, plumbing their azure depths. The cool flame of her spirit engulfed him. He could not have resisted even if it had occurred to him to do so. **It is like this. Come.** And the slight young body crumpled to the floor.

_He was, and was not. Time was not. Matter was not. But he existed, and fleetingly sensed other existences like his own. Friends? Family? Elves who had already shed their bodies? Elves he knew, would know, would never know? He could not tell, but he could feel his spirit reaching out to them in kinship. They were his own kind, a part of him. He knew himself to be a spirit with a garment of flesh—clad in it but independent of it. He, the lastborn of his people, was a free soul, equal in essence to the Firstcomers themselves. There was exhilaration as well as terror in the knowledge. The possibility still existed of separation from those he loved best. But final oblivion was impossible. For better or worse, the being that was Peysol could never truly die. And he would not be alone._

_But his body…_

There was a pull, a feeling of direction, attraction, almost like a call … some tie was beginning to fray and unravel…

_His body was…_

**Leave him be, curse you! Enough! Return!**

Something seized upon his spirit and slammed it back into its failing receptacle. Blackness descended and he knew no more.

 

Peysol awoke in his own bed, in his own little room, with morning light filtering in through the closed shutters. A stray beam fell upon a hanging on the opposite wall, a woven seascape with fishing boats. It was his own work, and he was rather proud of the way the waves had come out.

He was alive.

As he lay there, he remembered the events of the night before. They were clear, but distant, and for a few moments he wondered if he had dreamed them. But, turning his head, he could see the robe and slippers he had worn on top of the clothespress. Probably Ataynah had carried him back here and put him in bed after he fainted.

The door curtain parted and Nennali entered, followed by Tascha. She smiled when she saw that her son was awake. She came to his side and took his hand in one of hers, while the other felt his forehead. “How do you feel this morning, Peysol? Did you sleep well?”

The boy looked up into her blue eyes that mirrored his own, and saw some of the lines of worry around them smoothed away as he answered, “Yes, Mother. I’m feeling much better.”

“And hungry?” Tascha prompted. “Clayven was saying something about whitefish chowder.”

Peysol grinned at the mention of his favorite dish. “I think I could manage to eat some of that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Clayven came in with a bowl on a tray. For a moment Peysol’s vision seemed to blur, then double. He saw Clayven and his mother and Tascha as they were upon the other side, beings of spirit, shining individualities that seemed to belong to strangers. Then his senses refocused on Clayven’s freckles and the way his ears stuck out, on the smell of spiced fish coming from the bowl, the way the sunlight touched gleams from Tascha’s hair, the calluses on his mother’s hand where it held his. All that he loved was here, body, mind, and spirit. Death, whatever it was, would come when it would come. For now, he was alive, and for now that was enough.


End file.
